


you could have it all if it matters to you

by ericdire (aarobron)



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 16:11:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18742507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aarobron/pseuds/ericdire
Summary: He gives himself a shake, wiping his forehead with his sleeve and putting his game face back on. He’s a different person on the pitch, because he learnt a long time ago that when he’s got his cleats on and he’s staring down eleven men that aren’t his team, it’s easy to block everything else out. He becomes Virgil, centre back and number four, and nothing else matters for those ninety minutes.They have to win this game. Not for the league, or for dignity or face or bragging rights – but forMo.





	you could have it all if it matters to you

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading, and as always, feedback is appreciated! xxx

It’s physically impossible judging by the levels of noise ringing around St James’ Park, but Virgil’s certain he can hear a sickening crunch when Mo’s head makes contact with Dúbravka’s hip.

The whole world stops, just for a second – the earth stops spinning and all his blood stops pumping through his veins, heart in his mouth and fingers trembling. Mo’s on the floor, deathly still and face contorted in pain. Virgil wants to go to him, but the medical staff are kneeling around his body, gloved hands doing checks that Virgil wouldn’t even begin to understand.

He turns away, just for a second. If only to stop the bile that’s rising up his throat.

Dejan’s by his side in an instant, palm hot on his back and eyes sympathetic, but Virgil forces himself not to be dragged into the feeling, not to look over his shoulder. He’s scared of what he might see – what if Mo was knocked out? What if he’s bleeding? What if, what if, _what if_ -

“He’ll be okay,” Dej says quietly, fingers of his left hand covering his mouth. He doesn’t want the cameras to pick up what he’s saying, to catch on to the nature of the conversation, but there’s no doubt that the entire world can see it written all over Virgil’s face. He can feel it in the tension headache throbbing at his temples, the thin line of his mouth. “It’s Mo –” he says the name like it means something, “– he’ll be fine.” 

“Doesn’t mean I am,” Virgil replies flatly, not caring if the cameras can see what he’s saying. He turns back, shrugging Dej’s hand away. He must be a masochist – or even a sadist. Maybe both, he decides, because when he fixes his eyes on the sight at the other end of the pitch, he realises he doesn’t want to miss a single second of it.

It’s not just grey jackets surrounding Mo anymore; instead, there’s flashes of yellow (four, Virgil counts, but his vision is blurred through a primal kind of fear, and it’s really anyone’s guess). Actual paramedics, trained first responders. Whoever they are, whatever they do, they’ve still been called over to deal with Mo.

That’s fucking terrifying.

His stomach lurches as he notices the spinal board and stretcher discarded a few inches away, and his mind starts racing with the possibilities. Mo still isn’t moving, curled on his side with his face pressed against the grass, and Virgil knows that he wouldn’t stay down this long if it wasn’t _bad_.

It makes his mind tick back: past this season, over the summer and Russia, and he lands on Kiev. On Mo’s tear-stained face as he sat on the pitch, resigned and exhausted, cradling his arm as white shirts surrounded him. Of the dejected line of his mouth when he was led off the pitch, the sling that supported his shoulder back at the hotel, his wet eyes every time Virgil asked if he was okay.

It’s sickening, really – for the two whole seasons now, Mo has put his everything into Liverpool and by some awful fate he’s ended the high _injured_.

He’s snapped back into reality when he watches the doctors strap Mo onto the spinal board, securing his shoulders and his pelvis, but before he’s had time to dwell on it, he catches Hendo’s eye. The captain is gesturing at him, telling him to come over, so he jogs to the sideline where he’s waiting with Klopp, a grim look on his face.

“Virg – are you okay?” Klopp asks quietly, clamping his hand around Virgil’s bicep tightly. The pure tenderness of the moment doesn’t pass him by, and he wonders how the gaffer _knows_ and who told him, but he doesn’t have time for this right now. Instead, he nods, a little dazed, but Klopp seems satisfied because he starts talking about tactics and shapes, where there’s spaces and what weaknesses to exploit.

Virgil is listening, he is, but he still can’t take his eyes off of Mo being carried across the pitch. 

They carry him past the technical area and Klopp leans down, a hand in his hair as he says something soft and soothing. Mo doesn’t move his hands away from his face, fingers digging into his eyes so harshly it must hurt, and Virgil knows he’s crying. He sees Kiev all over again, and wants to kill everyone who’s ever hurt him.

He watches Rafa pass on his well wishes, ever the gentleman, before the doctors are leading him down the tunnel, into the bowels of the stadium. The second he’s out of sight, it strikes Virgil that he should have said something, anything at all – just to let him know he’s there. That he cares. That he loves him.

But there’s nothing he can do to change it, so he lets Klopp draw him in for a quick, one-armed hug and squeezes Hendo’s hand, and jogs back into position.

He gives himself a shake, wiping his forehead with his sleeve and putting his game face back on. He’s a different person on the pitch, because he learnt a long time ago that when he’s got his cleats on and he’s staring down eleven men that aren’t his team, it’s easy to block everything else out. He becomes Virgil, centre back and number four, and nothing else matters for those ninety minutes.

They have to win this game. Not for the league, or for dignity or face or bragging rights – but for _Mo_.

.

He stays on the pitch long enough for the barest of formalities, and then he's heading down the tunnel like a man on a mission. Nobody stops him, because they all understand.

Mo’s sitting in the small medical room attached to the away team’s dressing room, Sky Sports rolling on the television even though it’s muted now. He’s massaging the back of his neck with a half a wince on his face, but when he sees Virgil step through the door, he drops his hand and smiles.

It’s not one of his regular smiles – not bright and wide, or taking over his whole face (although it still lights up the room and Virgil’s heart). Instead, it’s hesitant, and his eyes look tired. He looks done with the entire world, even as his thighs fall open for Virgil to stand between.

“How are you feeling?” Virgil asks quietly, unable to take his eyes off the younger man. He resists for all of four seconds until he's pulling Mo into his arms, so tight it's probably claustrophobic. "How's your head?"

Mo doesn't complain about the embrace. He curls his fingers into the back of Virgil’s shirt, fisting at the material like he needs something to keep him upright, to stop him from drowning in the overwhelming sadness he must feel. There are so many things running through Virgil’s head right now – every quiet, desperate confession Mo had made about Kiev – and he hates all of them. “I’m fine,” he murmurs, but it’s unconvincing.

Virgil pulls back, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. He holds Mo at arm’s length, hands wrapped around his biceps as he slowly rakes his gaze up and down the younger man’s body. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for – head injuries and concussion don’t leave any physical marks, and there wouldn’t be any bleeding – but he half expects it, purely from the sickened feeling low in his stomach.

All he sees is Mo’s sad eyes staring back at him, reddened around the edges from the tears that tattooed tracks down his face, and the defeated set of his shoulders. It’s a sight that Virgil never wanted to see ever again, and he wraps his arms around Mo again just so he doesn’t have to keep looking.

“You don’t need to pretend with me,” Virgil says quietly. It’s so full of feeling that it surprises even himself, and he feels Mo take a shaky breath, entire body hitching with the force of holding back a sob. He slides his fingers into Mo’s hair, palm cradling the back of his head gently as he pulls him against his chest. Mo doesn’t like anyone seeing him cry, and Virgil’s happy to give him the perfect cover.

“It’s just – so fucking _unfair_ ,” Mo spits, voice shaking with more fury than Virgil’s ever heard from him. His arms circle Virgil’s waist, hands resting on the small of his back as his blunt fingernails dig into the muscle there. “It seems like – every time we get close to winning something, so close I can _feel it_ , life strikes me down. Forces me back to square one, and I have to watch from the sidelines.” 

“I know,” Virgil says, thumb swiping the soft skin at the top of Mo’s spine. He has nothing else to add, because he agrees with all of it. Has been holding onto the anger at the injustice for the better part of half an hour, but there’s nothing he can do to change it. “I know, Mo. I do.”

Silence falls over them like a blanket, heavy but comforting, as Mo’s body continues to tremble with the quiet tears that are streaking down his face. He pulls back, eventually, and wipes his sleeves across his eyes roughly, swallowing thickly.

“I just want this season to be over,” Mo says. Quiet and weak, pure exhaustion threading through his voice, and Virgil drops to his knees so they’re eye level. He knows it’s been an awful few months; the pressure of the title race, and Barcelona, and the goal drought, and the racism. Everything that the rest of the world doesn’t see because Mo doesn’t let them, but Virgil does. He sees all of it. He sees the toll it takes.

“Next season, we’re gonna win it all,” Virgil says, puffing his chest out proudly. He grins when he sees Mo’s eyes slowly begin to clear and cups a hand around his jaw, fingertips scratching through the bristles of his beard gently. They’re promises that he can’t keep, and he really shouldn’t be giving them – but he’d do anything to see Mo smile. “The title, the champions league: you name it. It’s ours, because we’re Liverpool, and it’s in our blood. It’s all gonna be ours.”

“You think?” Mo asks, a little quietly. He’s hesitant but he’s smiling now, the kind that stretches across his face and makes the whole world feel like a brighter place. Virgil loves those smiles so, so much. 

“I know,” Virgil promises, soaking himself in the soft, delighted laugh that Mo lets out. It makes him forget the events of the night, the sight of Mo on the stretcher, Dejan’s sympathetic eyes. It’s all gone, and all that’s left is this single moment. He leans forward and presses his lips to Mo’s forehead, tender and gentle, because he can’t resist. Because he can.

Because this moment, with this man, in this room – is all that matters.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @ [bami-dele](https://bami-dele.tumblr.com/) xo


End file.
